The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie
Page 24
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
The audience started to quiet, waiting expectantly. Violet raised her hands and launched into her rehearsed speech. “Please, the countess has given all she has. She is spent for the night, but she will reappear here on Saturday, after she has rested and meditated. If you wish a private consultation, you must write to the address on the card her maid will hand to you as you leave. I thank you for coming, and the countess thanks you.” Violet jerked around to look through the crack in the curtain, as though someone had called her. “What . . .?” She whirled to face the audience again, her veils trembling. “The countess. Please, you must go. I must . . .”
Violet broke off and scurried back through the curtains. The stage behind them was empty, Mary having long since escorted Celine away.
Violet paused to catch her breath as the fold of velvet dropped closed behind her. Dizzy and dry mouthed, she caught up the half-full pitcher of water, thrust her annoying veils aside, and drank a long draught.
Mr. Mackenzie was alive, and here, unless Violet, in her overwrought state, had dreamed him. Perhaps she’d played so long at spirits that she’d started to believe she truly could see the dead.
Tommyrot. He was alive.
How the devil had he found her? Violet had bought train and boat tickets under a false name, had taken the rooms to let here under still another name, neither of which were Bastien or their personas of the countess and princess. At the boardinghouse, she and her mother were plain Madame and Mademoiselle Perrault, from Rouen, with a maid. Mary kept her own first name, pronouncing it Marie, but no one paid much attention to maids, many of whom were called Marie, regardless.
How did Daniel discover that Violette Bastien and Princess Ivanova were one and the same? Daniel had not seen Celine at the London house, and Violet was always careful to never have their likenesses printed anywhere. Concealing herself behind her black tulle veil had obviously made no difference.
Had Daniel truly come here to have them arrested? Or perhaps to blackmail Violet for his silence? He could not have come to Marseille for any benevolent reason—for that he’d have stayed in England and left her in peace.
Violet wanted to rush to the dressing room, grab her mother and Mary, and run again. Somewhere, anywhere. Maybe to Russia in truth, a place they’d never been.
She made herself swallow a little more water and calmly walk to the theatre manager’s office to secure the takings. She’d learned to collect the money right away, after one unscrupulous manager had disappeared with all the cash one night. Violet counted the money, gave the manager his cut, then stashed their share inside her corset and hurried down the hall to the dressing room at its end.
Celine was there in a soft armchair, truly exhausted. She rubbed her bare forehead. “I should not have worn the turban. The blasted thing is so heavy.”
Her South London accent crept into her English for a moment before she heaved another sigh and reverted to cultured French. “Please, may we go home, Violet? I have such a headache.”
“Of course, Mama. You and Mary go in the carriage. I’ll change my clothes and walk home. It’s not far, and it’s still early.” And if Daniel lingered with constables to arrest Violet for assaulting him, her mother might have a chance to get away.
“You are so good to me.” Those words came often out of Celine’s mouth, in her weary tone, but Violet knew she meant them.
Violet gave Mary the takings to lock away at the boardinghouse. She wasn’t fool enough to walk down the street, even in this fairly safe part of town, with thousands of francs inside her bodice. And if constables were coming, her mother would have the money.
But no one waited to pounce on them outside the stage door. Violet made sure Celine and Mary were safely away in the hired carriage, with no one following them, before she returned to the quiet dressing room, breathing a little more easily. She changed out of her costume, packed their things, including the turban, into a valise, and slipped out the stage door again.
Violet walked down the narrow lane behind the theatre toward the main street, her head down. She now wore a workingwoman’s garb of plain skirt, shirtwaist, and coat, with a flat hat pinned over her simple knot of hair. She might be a typist or a telegraph worker hurrying home after a long, tiring day.
Before she reached the street, a hand landed on her shoulder, and Daniel Mackenzie pulled her back into the shadows of the passage.
Daniel had never seen a woman look so terrified. Violette Bastien stared up at Daniel with dark blue eyes wide with fear. Wariness lurked behind the fear, like that of an animal who has been repeatedly kicked.
Daniel softened his grip on her shoulder. “Easy, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then what the devil are you doing here?” Gone was the French with the Russian tinge, gone was the French itself, even the faintest accent she’d had in London. She sounded English through and through, and not well-bred English. London, south of the river, if he were to guess.
“Ah, Mr. Mackenzie,” Daniel said in a mocking tone. “How good to see you again. And that you’re unhurt after I whacked you over the head with my finest vase.” He rubbed his temple. “What was the damned thing made of, eh? Granite?”
“I’m sorry,” Violette said stiffly. “I never meant to hurt you.” They stood in deep shadows, but her pupils were pinpricks of shock. “You frightened me.”
“That was obvious. I remember you not minding me kissing you in your upstairs room. Not so downstairs. Or did you change your mind when your maid hit me with that sandbag of a bolster?”
Violet broke off and scurried back through the curtains. The stage behind them was empty, Mary having long since escorted Celine away.
Violet paused to catch her breath as the fold of velvet dropped closed behind her. Dizzy and dry mouthed, she caught up the half-full pitcher of water, thrust her annoying veils aside, and drank a long draught.
Mr. Mackenzie was alive, and here, unless Violet, in her overwrought state, had dreamed him. Perhaps she’d played so long at spirits that she’d started to believe she truly could see the dead.
Tommyrot. He was alive.
How the devil had he found her? Violet had bought train and boat tickets under a false name, had taken the rooms to let here under still another name, neither of which were Bastien or their personas of the countess and princess. At the boardinghouse, she and her mother were plain Madame and Mademoiselle Perrault, from Rouen, with a maid. Mary kept her own first name, pronouncing it Marie, but no one paid much attention to maids, many of whom were called Marie, regardless.
How did Daniel discover that Violette Bastien and Princess Ivanova were one and the same? Daniel had not seen Celine at the London house, and Violet was always careful to never have their likenesses printed anywhere. Concealing herself behind her black tulle veil had obviously made no difference.
Had Daniel truly come here to have them arrested? Or perhaps to blackmail Violet for his silence? He could not have come to Marseille for any benevolent reason—for that he’d have stayed in England and left her in peace.
Violet wanted to rush to the dressing room, grab her mother and Mary, and run again. Somewhere, anywhere. Maybe to Russia in truth, a place they’d never been.
She made herself swallow a little more water and calmly walk to the theatre manager’s office to secure the takings. She’d learned to collect the money right away, after one unscrupulous manager had disappeared with all the cash one night. Violet counted the money, gave the manager his cut, then stashed their share inside her corset and hurried down the hall to the dressing room at its end.
Celine was there in a soft armchair, truly exhausted. She rubbed her bare forehead. “I should not have worn the turban. The blasted thing is so heavy.”
Her South London accent crept into her English for a moment before she heaved another sigh and reverted to cultured French. “Please, may we go home, Violet? I have such a headache.”
“Of course, Mama. You and Mary go in the carriage. I’ll change my clothes and walk home. It’s not far, and it’s still early.” And if Daniel lingered with constables to arrest Violet for assaulting him, her mother might have a chance to get away.
“You are so good to me.” Those words came often out of Celine’s mouth, in her weary tone, but Violet knew she meant them.
Violet gave Mary the takings to lock away at the boardinghouse. She wasn’t fool enough to walk down the street, even in this fairly safe part of town, with thousands of francs inside her bodice. And if constables were coming, her mother would have the money.
But no one waited to pounce on them outside the stage door. Violet made sure Celine and Mary were safely away in the hired carriage, with no one following them, before she returned to the quiet dressing room, breathing a little more easily. She changed out of her costume, packed their things, including the turban, into a valise, and slipped out the stage door again.
Violet walked down the narrow lane behind the theatre toward the main street, her head down. She now wore a workingwoman’s garb of plain skirt, shirtwaist, and coat, with a flat hat pinned over her simple knot of hair. She might be a typist or a telegraph worker hurrying home after a long, tiring day.
Before she reached the street, a hand landed on her shoulder, and Daniel Mackenzie pulled her back into the shadows of the passage.
Daniel had never seen a woman look so terrified. Violette Bastien stared up at Daniel with dark blue eyes wide with fear. Wariness lurked behind the fear, like that of an animal who has been repeatedly kicked.
Daniel softened his grip on her shoulder. “Easy, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then what the devil are you doing here?” Gone was the French with the Russian tinge, gone was the French itself, even the faintest accent she’d had in London. She sounded English through and through, and not well-bred English. London, south of the river, if he were to guess.
“Ah, Mr. Mackenzie,” Daniel said in a mocking tone. “How good to see you again. And that you’re unhurt after I whacked you over the head with my finest vase.” He rubbed his temple. “What was the damned thing made of, eh? Granite?”
“I’m sorry,” Violette said stiffly. “I never meant to hurt you.” They stood in deep shadows, but her pupils were pinpricks of shock. “You frightened me.”
“That was obvious. I remember you not minding me kissing you in your upstairs room. Not so downstairs. Or did you change your mind when your maid hit me with that sandbag of a bolster?”
